


Whispers of the Dragonborn

by Annuk



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dovahkiin - Freeform, Elder Scrolls Lore, Female Dovahkiin - Freeform, Khajiit - Freeform, Lore-Friendly, M/M, Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6609118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annuk/pseuds/Annuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story takes place in Skyrim, during the time period of 4E 201 - 4E 202.<br/>I am using the British spelling of words, thus they may appear to be misspelled to some.</p>
<p>The story follows a Khajiit warrior named Do'jirr and a Nord mage named Thoring. Do'jirr begins to be attracted to the mage fairly quickly, but what about the mage?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skyrim, 4E 201. Falkreath Hold, 17th of Last Steed.

Skyrim, 4E 201.  
Falkreath Hold, 17th of Last Steed.

Do’jirr knew better than to hunt for game near the borders of Skyrim, especially now with the civil war raging on – or was it the Great Uprising or perhaps the Stormcloak Rebellion? What matters it? Do’jirr will die under the pretence of being a rebel before the next moon.

“Not if this one has anything to say in the matter.”

The prisoners of the carriage in which Do’jirr was seated were silent, but Do’jirr could tell they were praying. To Whom? Do’jirr thought to himself. The Khajiit was going to inquire the stormcloaks as to whether they thought they were going to live to see another day.

Do’jirr was very articulate and had thought of a number of responses and their counters. He knew that they were rebels and hated the Imperials and their Empire with a ferocity and pride to match that of a dragon. The canny Khajiit knew they had a fierce fire in their hearts – especially now that they were at the mercy of the Imperials – he did not care for their cause but Do’jirr was not going out like this, and so he shall use its’ leverage.

Before the Khajiit could utter a word, however, he heard the driver of the second carriage behind them exclaim, “Shut up back there!” The driver had silenced his batch prisoners. Among them Do’jirr noticed a fierce looking, fire haired Nord woman. Certainly not a stormcloak. A hunter perhaps? That would explain the face paint – two dark lines running from her eyes, down across her cheeks to her ears.

“Hmm!” Do’jirr spat mockingly, “The sons and daughters of Skyrim…” he paused briefly before resuming just quietly enough that the guards wouldn’t hear, “What a joke.” As expected, the rebels’ gaze turned to the feline, “This one thought you were true Nords. Ones that will free Skyrim from the grip of the Empire.” The Khajiit conspired as he meticulously looked each one of them directly in the eyes, as though he knew each one personally.

Soon enough, the Nords began to shift in their seats; looking angry, embarrassed, defensive, without plan, and just desperate enough to listen to a Khajiit. Then one of the tougher looking Nords leaned in, “What do you mean, cat!?”

While Do’jirr knew the stormcloak wasn’t going to do anything, he also knew that having a silent, scrawny prisoner in-between them was going to aid in igniting the blind fury that this muscle mass was.

“What does this one mean?” the feline replied in an almost desperate tone. “From what Do’jirr observed you did what? – at the ambush? You killed maybe three or five Imperials, then laid down your arms and are now being transported to the headsman’s block with at least two innocents who just happened to be there, yes?”

“We don’t know!” the scrawny rebel exclaimed looking at Do’jirr, then back at the wooden flood of the carriage in shock of what he had just done. “We don’t know, you don’t know. They might give us a fair trial, they mi-” he was cut off when the eldest among them near-whispered through a white beard: “The furry-one is right.”

This is good. The Nords respect their elders, the others are sure to listen now.

The low, rough voice continued shamefully, “We’ve failed Ulfric.” Upon hearing the words, the rest of the rebels’ faces became stale as the realisation of what had just been said sunk in. The old man didn’t move much then or now. He stared past the man in front of him – through him.

Just then Do’jirr seized the moment. “Then go out like the warriors you are! Do not submit to the Imperials. Fight to fight another day. Fight to live forever in Sovngarde, to dine eternally in the Hall of Valor.” The Khajiit near shouted with his whispers. The prisoners looked around to ensure they hadn’t misheard. Could it be that the cat just said what we think he said? Such questions were obvious from their expressions. Now even the elder was leaning-in to ensure that the guards couldn’t hear.

“This one has a plan.” Do’jirr reassured, “But it is most important that Do’jirr gets to his equipment. The Khajiit are capable warriors and willing to cut down this one’s captors.” Do’jirr is no fool. He knows that not everyone will make it, in fact, the window of opportunity will be so small that only a few might escape with their lives – and Do’jirr was intent on keeping his. Besides, whose fault is it really that Do’jirr is heading to the headsman’s axe?


	2. Skyrim, 4E 201. Helgen, 17th of Last Steed.

Skyrim, 4E 201.  
Helgen, 17th of Last Steed.

Upon coming further down the road, the Khajiit could see stone walls fast approaching. Death is approaching but Do’jirr has a sweet tooth for life.

“Helgen… it’s Helgen.” the elder sighed as he looked Do’jirr in the eyes. The Khajiit nods and scans the other two prisoners sitting across from him – in one motion he glances over his right shoulder at the carriage driver and the mounted soldier lagging behind.

The driver is not visibly armed but likely has a dagger down his boot. The mounted unit will run down even Do’jirr – feline agility easily outperforms that of any Nord but doesn’t measure up against the stamina of a horse. No, Do’jirr has to strike within the walls of this Helgen. Luckily for Khajiit, these ropes were to bind the hands of Nords not the razor claws of Khajiit.

Ridding through the gates the Khajiit was holding his rope in its place, prisoners from the other carriage made vocal comments of the elves there and some General Tullius – probably the one in fancy armour. As the carriage came ever closer to its final destination, the prisoners in the first cart made determined eye contact with one another, nodding occasionally.

When it finally stopped, the two across from Do’jirr got off first forming a kind of shield. The toughest of them got off with Do’jirr – who then cut the rope off of the Nord’s hands – followed by the elder and the scrawny Nord whose bindings were swiftly, nonchalantly cut. The prisoners began unloading form the second carriage and Do’jirr could see most if not all of his equipment neatly tucked in a large piece of rolled up cloth, attached to the side of the second carriage now just a few steps out of reach.

Like clockwork the Imperials began to list the names of those present and waiting for them to step up. As agreed, none of the first batch of prisoners moved. The Imperial Captain scowled at the one ‘in charge’ of the first batch and threw her hand at Do’jirr et al. in a motion which instructed two guards to go and teach the rebels a lesson in obedience.

Pride will be their undoing. Do’jirr knows this. Do’jirr knows that it is the pride of men and mer that lead to their ultimate undoing – especially in the setting of an empire, where everyone is told that it is pride that keeps them going.

With the soldiers fast approaching Do’jirr could hear a strange noise echoing through the heavens above – a fierce roar? Magic? Either way this was no time for distractions. With the Imperials just some three steps away the muscled one stepped just slightly to his left to greet the interlopers, at the same time the elder pushed the scrawny stormcloak to indicate that the time to fetch the blades was upon them.

With his cat-like reflexes time appeared to move half its normal speed. Do’jirr saw the huge stormcloak smack the ears of the left most Imperial, dazing him. The stormcloak then disarmed the stunned Imperial as Do’jirr proved his razors to be effective when applied to the jugular of the other foot soldier.

Meanwhile the elder and his helper got their blades and cut free the rest while franticly taking Do’jirr’s equipment in their underarm to carry it to the furry-one. With the rest of the prisoners now scurrying to arms the Imperial superiors were attempting to organise legions in defence.

With his equipment now handy Do’jirr attempted to draw his blade, he stopped, however, midway through as he noticed that the sun had been blocked out.

“What is oblivion is THAT!?” a masculine voice cried.

“DRAGON! It’s in the clouds!” the villagers screeched. “Get the little one, we have to go NOW!”

Do’jirr just manged to look up before having to dodge a ball of fire. Before coming back into his senses he could hear screams as the stench of burnt flesh sept into his lungs. The Khajiit cannot linger and must run like the wind – the Imperials will surely ignore Do’jirr when faced with the wrath of the ancient one.

Attempting to stand Do’jirr was yet again struck down by the shouts of the ancient beast. The sky tore a hole, spitting molten rock; crushing the stone structures below. Do’jirr scrambled to grab his fallen belongings, struggling to find his footing as the fearsome impacts shook the very earth. The collapsing tower blocked the way they came forcing the prisoners to jump from a separate tower into a building on the other side - Do’jirr saw this from afar and decided it was the best course of action.

Reaching the top of the tower, Do’jirr followed the lead of the Nord huntress he’d seen before. Having made the jump into a burning building to escape dragon fire Do’jirr had realised his predicament – especially for a Khajiit seeing as how flames and fur do not mix well. The now group made it safely out of the wooden structure on to the other side and were greeted by some villagers and Imperials who were now also attempting to flee – no one dared to challenge the might of the winged beast now.

The air was filled with smoke, that of flesh and base matter. Agonising screams burrowed into the sensitive ears of the feline warrior as he attempted to find a route to freedom which might be feasible.

“By the Nine. Fool villager, get over here now!” a stormcloak shouted at a villager who was cowering in the shadow of some collapsed tower stones.

“No!” Do’jirr grabbed the stormcloak by the shoulder and urged him “He shall be the bate for the winged one.” The feline looked around at the others, “The beast will come down and we sneak past like shadows. This one will show you.”

The stormcloak looked at the Khajiit in desperation, he then glanced at the doomed villager and exhaled in submission. One of the older farmers placed his hand on the man’s shoulder in silent encouragement. This was the right thing to do.

In one terrifying swoop, the dragon landed just paces in front of the cowering villager, gnawing at the defenceless young man. With the dragon’s back toward the group Do’jirr waited for no one as he took to sneaking in the shadow of the stone wall with his belongings under his left arm – the others soon followed suit. The young villager’s screams were drowned out by the constant bombardment of Helgen by molten rock from the skies and the screeches of the winged beast. One such flaming rock had struck the stone wall nearby creating an enormous gap, demonstrating the power of this magic. As powerful as it may be, Do’jirr had no intention of staying behind to witness anymore of its’ awesome power.

In seeing the gap Do’jirr lost sight of the reason behind his sneaking in the first place, and swiftly sprinted to freedom.


	3. Skyrim, 4E 201. Whiterun Hold, 17th of Last Steed.

Skyrim, 4E 201.  
Whiterun Hold, 17th of Last Steed.

Crossing the threshold of the stone wall Do’jirr tore like the winds of Elsweyr into the brief woodland. The agile feline didn’t stop until he had reached the edge of a cliff. Bellow, a river; the stream leading to a village. Panting, Do’jirr collapsed to his knees. Had anyone else made it through? It had only now dawned on him that it was twilight. He had to get to Whiterun and inform Jarl Balgruuf of the dragon attack.

Do’jirr made it down to the river, quickly splashed his face with water to clean at least some of his dark, slightly bluish fur and put on his gear – or what was left of it. He put on his pants and steel armour which protected his waist from the solar plexus down, including most of his thighs. Do’jirr put on his gifted Redguard boots and wrapped his knuckles and forearms with heavy cloth bindings. He hooked his Akaviri Katana on his left thigh and drew it a couple of times.

Walking hastily down the road toward Riverwood the feline avoided a pack of stalking wolves before hearing a deafening sound echo through the valley.

“Dovahkiin.” The thunderous roar rumbled the very soil beneath Do’jirr, it was as though the mountains themselves shook.

“Dovahkiin?” Do’jirr repeated, “Dragonborn? But that would mean the prophecies were… true!? The Elder Scrolls, they told of their return.” Do’jirr had studied the Elder Scrolls in his brief time at the Arcanaeum, in the College of Winterhold. Others would have heard this also, Farengar, the court wizard of Jarl Balgruuf, ought to know what this means. Surely he would figure out that the dragons had returned.

“Do’jirr simply hopes that the dragon has not destroyed Breezehome, along with the rest of Whiterun.” the Khajiit told himself before running through Riverwood to check on his home and inform the Jarl of what took place in Helgen this day.


	4. Skyrim, 4E 201. Whiterun, 18th of Last Steed.

Skyrim, 4E 201.  
Whiterun, 18th of Last Steed.

Passing the farms of Whiterun Hold Do’jirr could swear he could see the corpse of a giant laying in the fields. Giants, not uncommon here true, but so close to a city? They are a peaceful bunch if left to themselves. The feline warrior passed the camping spot of the Khajiit caravan, which wasn’t there. Do’jirr felt his heart sink as he imagined gruesome images of his dear friends, indeed family, burnt to a crisp. He shook his head in hope of being wrong and quickly approached the main gate.

“Hold there.” the guard instructed. “State your business.”

“This one must see Jarl Balgruuf, a dragon has destroyed Helgen – you must trust Khajiit.” Do’jirr said utilising his beautiful, truly dreamy eyes in an attempt to persuade. Though he had begun to regret uttering the words ‘trust’ and ‘Khajiit’ in the same sentence due to the reputation the Khajiit had built up over the years.

“Ha! Trust… You say you were there, at Helgen? And escaped with your life?” the gate keeper inquired.

“Yes, this one saw it all unfold.” Do’jirr managed to slip in a few hand gestures to make him seem more trustworthy.

“It is true then… another one.” The gate keeper paused momentarily, “Well you better get going.” He instructed as he opened the gates and let Do’jirr pass.

‘Another one?’ had someone already made their way back from Helgen? The Khajiit wondered as he passed the fire braziers in these early morning hours. Passing Jorrvaskr, the home of the companions Do’jirr’s ever sensitive ears could pick up on the drunken partying happening inside of the upturned ship. The feline wondered if a battle had taken place to earn such celebration – perhaps it was they how slew the giant earlier?

Reaching Dragonsreach, the keep of Whiterun, Do’jirr was surprised to find Balgruuf, Farengar the court wizard, and Irileth (Balgruuf’s housecarl) conversing in the mage’s study. Upon entering the study, the Khajiit was greeted by a half drawn blade at Irileth’s side.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

“A dragon has destroyed Helgen. This one came to warn the jarl.” Do’jirr explained softly.

“Well that explains why the guards let you in.” Irileth supposed.

Farengar budged in, “You saw it too? How exciting! I simply must conduct an interview.”

Not long after he had finished his sentence Balgruuf declared “Not now Farengar! What is your name stranger?”

“Do’jirr” the Khajiit pronounced.

“Do’jirr? I do hope I am saying that right friend. Come, have a seat, tell us what you know of this dragon.” Balgruuf reassured as he pulled a chair.

Irileth groaned as she sheathed her blade and momentarily shrivelled her nose in distrust.


	5. Skyrim, 4E 201. Whiterun, 18th of Last Steed.

Skyrim, 4E 201.  
Whiterun, 18th of Last Steed.

Do’jirr’s nostrils filled with the smell of baked bread and boiling soup – vegetable with chunks of meat no doubt – coming from the kitchens of Dragonsreach. “It must be morning already.” Do’jirr told Farengar with whom he had been chatting with for the past few hours. Irileth and Balgruuf had withdrawn from the conversation a couple of hours earlier as they no doubt began their ‘battle plan’.

“Oh, I suppose you’re right. We should probably leave it there. I am truly thankful for your testimony Do’jirr and as promised your service for the jarl shall not be forgotten – someone will come by Breezehome tomorrow with compensation. And you are more than welcome to help yourself to the kitchens for breakfast of course.” Farengar told the Khajiit.

With a handshake Do’jirr left for the kitchens and helped himself to a little basket which he filled with bread, a bottle of wine and two chunks of freshly cooked meat.

Making his was down the stairs of Dragonsreach Do’jirr passed that loud preacher who stood by the statue of Talos every day, without fail preaching about his mighty and newly demoted god. The city was beginning to bustle with activity. The merchants were setting up their stalls for the day, others unlocking their shops and others still leaving for their farms. Do’jirr on the other hand, was preparing for a day of rest – the rest of the hunters will manage without him for a day.

Heading for his home Do’jirr thought of what he and the wizard spoke about. Turns out the Nord huntress Do’jirr had seen in the carriage behind his was Dovahkiin – Dragonborn, a mortal born with the soul of a dragon. Reaching the door of Breezehome he reached for his key. Unable to find it, Do’jirr sighed and headed for The Bannered Mare to see if his friend Hulda, the innkeeper, had a spare lock pick lying around somewhere. As though there was any question whether she had one lying around somewhere.

The Bannered Mare were rather quiet at this hour. There were of course a few patrons present. Those looking to get away from it all, those looking for friends and of course companionship – though it were a little early for that. From the looks of it Mikael the bard had just arrived and was getting comfortable in his usual spot – fairly close to the fire pit but just far enough as to not burn up. Entering the inn, Do’jirr headed directly towards the counter where Hulda who was polishing tankards.

“Hulda, friend.” Do’jirr called for the Nord woman’s attention while taking a seat on one of the stools and placing his basket on the counter.

“Ah Do’jirr darling, how have you been? What can I get you at this early hour?” she inquired while eyeing that weaved basked. “Something smells good.” she added.

“Breakfast.” Do’jirr answered while scratching his ear, “Hulda, this one requires your assistance” he added.

“Well of course darling, what’s troubling you?” the inn keeper probed worryingly.

“Would you happen to have a lock pick anywhere?” the Khajiit near whispered as Hulda’s eyebrow raised in suspicion. “Khajiit knows it sounds strange, but Do’jirr has lost his key to Breezehome.”

“Rough night, huh?” Hulda smirked sarcastically with folded arms. “Alright… wait here.” Hulda strutted into the kitchen area to look through some drawers.

Do’jirr formed a small smile which was fairly difficult to detect for those not accustomed to Khajiit facial expressions. While his friend rummaged through the drawers Do’jirr took a good look around the inn. An uncharacteristic figure had caught the fiery gaze of the feline.

A mage, no doubt about that. The robe gave it away – the likes of those at the college of Winterhold. Adventurer? – certainly. An obvious lithe figure, even through the robe – Nords are usually big, muscular warriors or strong farmers, not mages. Nonetheless, the mage was obviously bothering the patrons with questions or propositions of some sort. The Khajiit smiled at the idea of an adventurer looking for a strong pair of hands in a Whiterun inn at dawn.

The mage took a seat beside Do’jirr at the counter. As soon as he did Hulda looked over and called out “Saadia, dear?”

“Yes, mum?” a Redguard woman’s voice came from the kitchen.

“Take care of the customers would you, love?” Hulda said from afar.

“Of course, mum.” With that the Redguard woman approached the Nord and asked if he required refreshments or perhaps breakfast. The mage had refused as he hadn’t a Septim to his name. Just like that, the woman went back to her duties.

The mage took a breath and introduced himself, “Well met friend, I’m Thoring.” while reaching out for a handshake.

The feline somewhat surprised at the stranger’s friendliness knew better than to trust it fully. “Moons smile on you, traveller.” Taking care to say traveller.

“You appear capable, if I may. Would you be willing to share in an adventure?” Do’jirr raised an eyebrow and looked at the Nord. "You see, I require some protection for an expedition into a Dwemer ruin – not that I’m expecting there to be danger, but one can never be over prepared for such a venture.” There was a brief pause in the pair’s conversation. Thoring knew he had not yet convinced the warrior. “There will of course be loot, lots of it.” The Khajiit pointed his chin upward with an intake of breath – was he to just take this poor man’s word for it? Do’jirr did know of the glory of the Dwemer and their long dead civilisation but was the mage serious?

With that, Thoring reached into his rucksack and pulled out something the size of both his palms covered in a soft cloth. He placed the item on the counter to reveal the cube. It was… strange. No mistaking it for anyone who has studied the Dwemer: black with strange glowing red writing, covered in runes and emitting a strange, detectable magic.

The Khajiit looked into Thoring’s piercing green eyes and exhaled, “A Lexicon…”

The shock on the mage’s face was truly priceless. It even got a chuckle out of Do’jirr. The mage certainly didn’t expect any inn patron to know much of anything about the forgotten Dwemer. “You know of the Dwemer?” Thoring inquired further, though he didn’t get much out of the Khajiit at this time.

The inn keeper approached the counter and slipped something wrapped in cloth to the Khajiit with a smile and a subtle nod before returning to her business. Do’jirr smiled at her gesture and inquired of the mage, “Khajiit overheard that this one has no money, yes?”

“Well… not at this time, but once I get to th-” the mage was interrupted before he could finish.

“Do’jirr proposes that we head out tomorrow.” There was a sign of relief in the green eyes of the mage. “In the meantime, Thoring should stay with Khajiit in this one’s home, here in Whiterun. There will be food and shelter – if the Nord speaks true, the ruin will provide more than enough compensation.”

Thoring certainly wasn’t expecting this and, understandably, was rather sceptical. The pair did, however, shake on it and proceeded to Breezehome. Approaching the door, Do’jirr explained that he had lost his key and so this was the best way to get in and get his replica key. With a few quick glances around, the feline made quick use of his knowledge of locks and swiftly opened the door.


End file.
